On A Friend
by The Madman From The Bronx
Summary: He could've told himself that he was selling out all of the years of laughs and experience they'd shared together. It didn't seem to be the case, though, not with a smile on his face, not with the wind blowing just that way, and not with a partner whose presence still radiated from within him. First time posting here. This is a death fic.


This is my first time posting for Starsky and Hutch, and I've had this story lying around since October. This is sort of out of the blue, I know, but I've been dropping reviews for the fandom here and there and thought it was about time to put up something of my own. Please leave a review and tell me what you think! **Warning: this is a death fic.**

* * *

Starsky always knew he'd die before anybody else did.

He's survived Vietnam, held twenty other soldiers in his arms as he watched them go, one by one. A bullet to his side, and he himself nearly died of infection. There was only so much a mortal man could take.

Back in Academy, there had been a robbery, and a car tripped up the planted wire and flipped right over his neck. The other fellows always thought it was a bit eerie how Starsky laughed it off—not because he was trying, like any of the rest of them would, but because he was succeeding. In 'Nam, life was taken at face value—and face value was cheap. Starsky had forgotten about dying until that day, and on that day he discovered his fate. He'd be the first to die, only he didn't expect to have so many more close calls and false alarms on the way.

Death didn't scare Starsky like it scared the others. Some envied him for it; others said he couldn't be for real. At the end of the day, though, everyone was in awe around him. Starsky pretended not to notice this. It was easier that way. It was a side of him people only saw 10% of the time, anyway, and with those sorts of numbers, everybody forgot. Here for years he's been the childlike, temperamental one, the one who brawled and the one who brooded. The stateside Starsky was the one everybody knew, including Starsky himself.

He was probably supposed to have died six years ago with that poison. Hell, two years ago, he _had_ died—but he hadn't stayed that way. Whatever it was that resurrected him was comprised of a variety of factors—a persistent doctor, an iron will—but it was the fleet-footed Hutch who gave him that reminder to breathe again. And breathe he did, and his head burst into stars. Starsky hadn't given much thought to dying after that. He even entertained the thought that he was invincible. Who wouldn't?

In his job, Starsky nearly always took the bullet. He preferred it that way, letting Hutch fret over him. The few times that Hutch took a bullet, Starsky was too worried to think. Instinct kicked in, and he was riding on some sort of objective, omniscient intellect. He couldn't help Hutch if he fell apart. Now, as he looked toward Hutch, he felt safety draw its cloak 'round both of them, and his face broke into an easy grin. It was just another warehouse, after all, just another bust. It was their special time of calm, one that couldn't be replicated on a day off—and god knows they both tried—but there was no quitting this line of work, not for any price. They'd tried that, too, only to be back on within weeks.

Hutch looked up from cuffing one of the operatives and returned Starsky's smile.

Suddenly a series of shots rang out.

Hutch pulled his gun and looked at Starsky.

Starsky had done the same.

Two pairs of eyes isolated themselves from two immobile bodies.

Hutch was the first to see.

From behind a box, an arm shook with the momentum of the shots.

Then a man stepped into view. He aimed everywhere.

Workers fled from the building like displaced pigeons, one running off with Hutch's handcuffs dangling from one wrist.

The pair hit the ground, one before the other—and from the way he fumbled, a vital must've been hit. The gunman let a few more go before running out after his companions, satisfied with the cops' preoccupation with the ground.

In times like this, they were no longer separate. Their thoughts, wants, and needs aligned perfectly to suit whichever one was wounded—in a technical sense, for they both were wounded. This time was no different.

"Christ!" Hutch burst. "Was that Lombardi?"

"The one and only," Starsky replied grimly.

Lombardi had gotten out of an accessory charge the year before. He was sloppy, leaving all sorts of loose ends. Nonetheless, the charges couldn't hold him, and besides, he had Samuel Garner as a lawyer. Oh well—there was always next time for Klutzo.

"Shouldn't even be out. If I had another shot at that two-faced sonofa—"

"Relax, Starsk. You're no vigilante."

The two cops panted on the floor, where one rolled onto his side and inspected the other's wounds, chest heaving. Center mass, a gash right where he supposed his partner's stomach was, he noted with shattering dread, percolated an angry red stream, soaking his shirt as well as most of the floor. He winced and applied pressure with his right hand. For a moment, the absence of blood made it a comforting situation, if fictitious. Sometimes the truth was the last thing a sucker needed. However, it wasn't long before blood started to seep through each firm finger.

Dull blue eyes met vibrant.

They both knew it. They had been close far too many times to skirt a discussion on the worst-case scenario.

Dark hair fell over his partner's brow as he coughed. Fingers pressed in the wound—he told himself not to blink, leaning in further to put more pressure on, and a determined scowl settled on his face as he ignored a series of sharp gasps and inhales. Maybe his partner's time was numbered, but damned if he wasn't going to help him as long as he could hold him from the inevitable.

"What do you know about that?" Hutch shifted, forcing himself to smile. He watched the other man smile just as weakly. Vision fell from a tight set of lips, and his own twitched briefly. The blond Detective Sergeant knew exactly what was going on, even if his vision was blurred. Yet more pressure went on the wound, and he watched Starsky grit his teeth. There were hundreds of times the bullet missed, more than a few times when they hit, some closer to vitals than others, but all of them had evaded the cogs and gears of a harried life, or two.

What each wouldn't give to have gotten off just one more time.

Rip, rip, tear, tear. Off came another shred of fabric, placed over the dressing that had soaked through. Air fled from gritted teeth. The temperate cop bit his lip, pushing back instinct by trying to ease up on the pressure, thin frame ignorant of the tremor that had taken his body. Maybe he should have gone to medical school.

Several tentative nails dug into his thigh, and he paused, tried and failed to draw breath. Tears sprang to his eyes.

It wasn't working. There was too much blood. The pressure would only hurt, he told himself.

Reason didn't register. That same instinct he'd tossed away a moment ago overpowered his senses, and his hands went faster now, stripping bandages until half his shirt was gone, wrapping them around a narrow chest and sinking into his hands, trying to stop the blood flow. The heat and the cramped space only made it more difficult, and he rubbed his head against his elbow to wipe the sweat off his brow and gulped the bits of air that came. As he worked, he didn't notice the nails again until they retracted, and his partner's brow smoothed as his eyes closed.

All it took was a warehouse and one person not to make it out of there. The whole thing was set up just like it might've been in that sick fuck Johnny Bagley's mind.

Bagley wasn't here, though.

It was a sadistic game of déjà vu, cruel because it was arbitrary.

Eyelids clamped shut and a fist hit the floor, throbbing with the blood of every heartbeat. A quick, black bile scorched his throat. How the hell had they gotten dragged into this? What happened to make the two so far apart that he couldn't play white knight? They had escaped situations just like this as well as ones infinite times less likely. It must've been one hell of a sniper to get him downed with one shot, even if that was all it took. That was never the case with Starsky and Hutch. They had more bullets between them than a loaded rifle could dispense. Now he watched a spasm ripple over placid pallor and closed his own eyes, asking whatever was out there for more where that came from.

He paused, feeling fingernails sinking further into where they clutched his thigh.

Maybe there was something out there. Eyelids lifted under his gaze. For moments, minutes, or hours they didn't speak, not until his pupils dilated, the irises swirled into their normal azure, and his mind snapped into overall recognition.

There had been so many times like this that the two didn't even remember when they started conversing.

"What do you think, Hutch?"

"I'm not thinking."

The pair didn't speak, waited, as the warehouse, the pieces of clothing, each other came slowly into focus.

Starsky swallowed. "Me and thee, buddy. Always. Doesn't stop now. Just keep thinking that."

Sight broke from truth, and minus the blood and splayed limbs, they were 'me and thee,' no more and no less, for a little longer yet.

"Doesn't change the fact one of us is dying," Hutch's eyes turned steely with understanding.

"Always knew this was gonna happen, didn't we?" Starsky whispered, Hutch's eyes resounding in his words. "It's gonna be okay, Hutch."

"No, it's not. There isn't gonna be a me and thee to trust, not for much longer."

"'Ey—'ey!" Starsky made a pathetic grab for his shoulders. "_Nothing_ changes me and thee."

Everything they faced, they faced together. It always worked this way. Fittingly they followed the trail of bondage and fear as if it weren't any different now, as if tomorrow they'd both still be around for more of the same. Now, however, fear beckoned intrepidity, forming a stoic pair of exoskeletons. In partnership neither burdened the other with this kind of hurt—not in a situation like this—by laying his cards on the table, for it was a pain one man couldn't take, shouldn't take. One held his pain, and the other held his despair. Brothers didn't do that to each other, not as long as they could hold off.

"It's gonna be okay, buddy…" Starsky repeated.

"Aside the fact that we blew this operation, that one of us isn't gonna make it, no, it's _not_ gonna be okay, _buddy_!"

Starsky steeled himself and didn't reply, looking out over his partner's head from where they clutched each other in a lonely silence.

"How'd you do it, Starsk? In… in 'Nam, I mean. Must've scared the shit out of you." Hutch inhaled sharply.

The latter stiffened in his partner's arms. Hutch had never asked him about his service in Vietnam, not about the prison camp, not about the bodies, not about the honorable discharge and adjacent gunshot wound, not even on the days he picked up Starsky's army jacket without a word.

"Looked death in the face every day." Starsky finally replied. "Lookin' at it now. It's scary, Hutch."

"Yeah," Hutch agreed in an undertone.

"Y'know, part of it was the stuff they gave us—I'm sure enough of that. Not all, though. There're some things, just _make_ you hallucinate. Don't even need anything but your fear."

Hutch nodded. "You ever get scared thinking about it now?"

"Not anymore. I don't remember it so much."

One looked down at the other and noted both of their tears.

"Never answered my question." Hutch said blankly.

"What's that, Hutch?"

"How'd you do it? How'd you deal with death?"

"Took it day by day, buddy."

"Not sure I can… do it… when the time comes."

"'Course you can, Hutch." Starsky leveled his voice, although he allowed the tears to stay. "You can do anything."

"Oh, come on, Starsk." Hutch laughed weakly. "You know that's not true."

"I know that it is. Remember that time at the Academy, Hutch? Remember that one part of the physical exam that always got you, the hurdles? Never thought you'd scale the 42-incher, and after you did, we all celebrated, and you said, damned if I ever can't do anything again. You never had no trouble clearing fences after that."

"Most fences aren't 42 inches tall, Starsk."

"Since when? Get a measuring stick!" Starsky retorted, sniffling and feigning indignation. It was a dismal combination.

"Starsky?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"How is it that we're here right now, facing this, acting like a couple of seven-year-olds?" Hutch asked, and the room's morale once again plummeted.

"Dunno what you're talking about. I never grew up."

The two looked at each other again in anguish. They couldn't skirt this anymore, not when they were so close to being ripped apart forever.

"I can't do this."

"Yes, you can."

"I can't, god-fucking-damnit!" Starsky said amongst a string of oaths usually accompanied by a fist. Instead, he spoke in a broken tone that was so identical to his partner's recent torment that the bottom was ripped out of him all over again.

"You can." Hutch shut his eyes and drew a breath.

"Hutch—"

"What about me then, huh?" Hutch's voice rose. "What about how I'm gonna deal with this?" He paused, struggling to fill the void of meaning. "I need you."

"Never thought anything would be harder than it was in Vietnam, especially dying."

Hutch shot his partner a quizzical glance.

"Naw, Hutch, don't look at me like that. I need you, too. Not nearly as brave as you think, buddy—" Starsky stopped upon a sudden sweep of vertigo.

Hutch frowned and sat up.

"Hey, take it easy." Starsky bit his lip.

The two entangled in a brief skirmish, crying openly, storm and calm, afraid and fulfilled, clawing desperately at what was closing off above them before they slid even further into grief.

"Easy. Just keep breathing."

"Not gonna happen."

"It's all gonna be all right, okay? For you. You're gonna be fine."

"You're—you're right."

A monogrammed handkerchief swept across a tan brow. H for Hutch. H—for hell.

"Don't need you to tell me that."

They laughed amidst the tears.

"You can take care of yourself."

"I can't do this; I'm—I'm scared."

"Come on. You've got nothing to be afraid of."

"Don't you get it? I'm not afraid of dying! I was never afraid of it, stopped with that halfway through—" the man stopped and gathered breath, his body shaking with momentum. "I wasn't supposed to have lived this long! I wasn't supposed to have to live without you. _That's_ what I'm afraid of."

"Of course you were supposed to live this long. I'm the one who wasn't. You know, it's a funny thing, I was just telling myself that this morning—"

"Don't leave me."

"Never."

One hand found the other and squeezed.

As his eyes closed, Starsky trembled and stopped short of words that didn't really matter in the first place to either of them. The knowledge of what had passed and what would pass between them was instinctive and always implicit. After a matter of weeks, they were equipped with all the expressive tendencies they needed in every situation they would encounter during the rest of their lives.

If only they were so lucky.

"C'mon. You can take it. It'll all be over soon."

"I know I can, but I'd rather live—for both our sakes."

Yes. God forbid it would ever be out of self-interest.

Hutch smiled despite the pain and despite the tears, despite everything, knowing that Starsky could take any challenge he was given, no matter how much he was hurting. He'd seen and endured so much already, and he was not even close to the end of the line. There was only so much a man can take, but his partner was more resilient than anyone he'd ever known, taking each blow and standing up again. Gunther had nearly killed him, but not quite. Now was new, but not entirely. There was nothing Starsky couldn't handle, not even death. Somehow, for that fact, he knew that they would both be okay.

This was the thing that they never talked about and were by far the least prepared for. The closest time they'd come to brushing the topic was earlier in the partnership, before they had become best friends—and then the friendship came earlier than either anticipated. Suddenly, each had a stake in the other, and the topic sat on the shelf where it couldn't hurt anyone—

—until now.

The dying man gripped his partner's hand, defying circumstance. "Who—do—we—trust?"

"Me and thee."

Their woven palms became clammy, from whose sweat no longer mattered at length. The roof should have better protected them, saved them from the wet on their faces.

Cerulean eyes paled further as his breath began to hitch and shudder where his body stopped, just before the sentience went out of them forever.

Letting his fist fall with his sobs, the whole of him shook. Fingers played with flame each time they brushed and recoiled from the other's brow. He writhed against the stillness of his partner and buried his head in his shoulder while his fingers continued to roam through a snarl, begging never to be released. His hand finally rose, trembling, white to the knuckle and filled with gold, and his head fell the rest of the way to his partner's brow. Soundless was his grief. Everything seared and shriveled within him, and he briefly wondered if the fire ate him from inside or consumed him from out, if this was what death felt like when it was worse than his own, if this is what he covered up in Vietnam or entirely new.

He looked down at the body, a part of him that had already torn free.

"Hutch," Starsky whispered. "Oh, Hutch, no." He grabbed Hutch's blood-soaked shirt with both hands. "_No_, goddamnit!"

His arms fell to Hutch's side, and he curled up with his lower half being cooled by the floor.

Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to say anything more meaningful than his name, bemoaning it in millions of ways, before knowing that there was nothing more meaningful, that Hutch's name was solid gold in and of itself. By that time, there were many other things to be said and considered. He looked instead at Hutch's handkerchief he'd pulled from his breast pocket, tucked snugly amidst shaking fingers, of the few dark hairs on Hutch's brow where he'd leaned in close to apply pressure. No, Starsky was never supposed to have lived this long.

How could Hutch have been thinking the same thing?

How would he ever remember his final smile without destroying himself? It had taken up residence in his soul, lying dormant until it rattled the cages of his sanity.

It was taking reinforcements a while, but Starsky didn't know or care. _It'll always be us, even if another world claimed dibs_, he vowed_._ Hutch wasn't here, but he'd be everywhere around him: that much Starsky knew from all the times when Hutch went missing and he didn't know whether or not his partner was alive. If they called that insanity, then damn whatever world this was. Between pain and insanity, he'd choose the latter.

And through it all, he was right back where he started, in a world that Starsky wasn't built to survive. He was never supposed to outlive Hutch. He wasn't supposed to outlive Terry, Helen, Lonnie Craig. They were younger, brighter, purer.

But none of their deaths killed him the way Hutch's did.

He was never meant to live this long.

Starsky knew that when he shot Bellamy before Bellamy could shoot Hutch, recognizing that with those few shots also died the secret to that formula and his rescue. Truthfully, he wouldn't have minded much if Gunther had gotten him, either, not with the hypothesis that Hutch would quit the force and live out the rest of his life away from danger. He knew it when Hutch's name tore from his torrid throat after he saw his partner gunned down fifty yards from where he had to stand rooted to his motorcycle. He thought back to those few seconds of paralysis, curled up like lead in his stomach, that marked the belief he had lost Hutch that day, but those moments were so quickly gone that he'd forgotten easily about them until now, and the two were back to their cheerful invincibility as soon as the vest came off in cheeky revelation. He who scorned bulletproof vests in his line of work thanked them a million times for that night he spent with Hutch watching movies on television.

It hardly mattered now. He was really dead this time.

Hutch was Starsky's partner. Hutch was Starsky's friend.

The words were empty, though, and they didn't even begin to cover what Hutch was to him. For over twelve years they'd known each other, the countless things they'd gotten each other out of or gotten each other through. On top of the things they saw on the beat, there was death and divorce. That was a clean ten years ago. It wasn't difficult for Starsky to convince himself that they'd always had each other. They watched movies, played monopoly, gave each other alternatives to lousy hospital food as applicable. Not all partners took up residence in the hospital so often, and not all friends weathered the stench of death and shattered commission. Everything he did for Starsky couldn't be summed up in one word. Damned if it could be summed up in thousands. Hutch was never supposed to be far enough away for Starsky not to be able to jump in front of him and take the bullet, and after that incident, Starsky swore that he wouldn't let Hutch that far away again while they were on a case together and while he any less than positive on the assumption that his friend was safe.

Today they had been in a hurry. Today, Starsky got up on the wrong side of the bed. He didn't mind the distance.

Was that any excuse for being just a step too far from having his partner's back? They had made it this far. There had always been a way before, even when there hadn't.

Yet somehow it did.

Sirens sounded, or they didn't—everything became blurry to his prostrate mind. He forced his hands to stay at his sides. Allowing his head to fall to his chest, Starsky let grief rock his body, and when the paramedics came in per that maudlin parade, he crumbled, covering Hutch's still form with his still-trembling own.

"Starsky, let him go," Captain Dobey said from miles away.

Starsky shook his head and sank further onto his partner's body, as stubborn as a child.

"David," Dobey implored. 'Starsky' sounded too cruel, too detached, right now. He tried telling him to calm down, but the words died in his throat. Starsky wouldn't listen, he knew, and it'd be cruel anyway to ask the impossible of him. At this point, Dobey knew he wasn't being ignored—Starsky was lost to the world, and nobody was sure how long that would last given the circumstances. "David, please."

At first, he thought his efforts were awarded when Starsky pushed himself off with slow precision, leaving some room between Hutch's body and his own. That was as far as he went. The glare he threw at the paramedics immediately convinced Dobey otherwise.

Nothing mattered anymore. Maybe nothing would ever matter again.

Starsky twisted the handkerchief around as he clutched it to his body, mind spinning with his fingers. Try as he did, he just couldn't breathe, couldn't thin out the air and stop taking it in clots and gulps. "Huuuuuuutch!" He howled in a voice worlds away from his own. "HUUUUUUUUTCH!"

His cry seared Dobey's mind and rattled his heart. Something ripped clean out of him and entered Starsky's unwitting shadow. The warehouse, Starsky, the blood, the paramedics all molded into something branded on his recollection, forever chained in his mind. He remembered the details of Elmo's death down to Stryker's left shoelace, but sensory details were easily transcended when overshadowed by the facts of experience. The two events were one and the same, down to the petulant curly-headed cop fate ordained a leftover. Dobey had been kicked before, and there was truly nothing like it. His hair had been curly, too.

Starsky lay still, but he didn't have the paramedics convinced. They gazed forward with thinly-veiled discomfort.

"Sedate him," Dobey pinched the bridge of his nose and lowered his head, severing memory at the knee.

Starsky, though, had leapt up, swinging on his legs, and made quick work of the syringe, which was knocked cleanly out of a burly paramedic's hand and skittered far across the floor. His chest expanded and contracted with a concentrated speed. "Shouldn't'a'died," he gulped for air. "Too young. All my fault. He ain't really gone. Shoulda gotten to him earlier."

It was astonishing, all the cops who still thought that however it wasn't true. Dobey held back a wince as the memories came back. "It's not your fault, Starsky." His name sounded foreign, but Dobey stepped forward in an attempt to placate him and wasn't very surprised when it didn't work.

"I SHOULDA GONE BEFORE HIM! I HAD PLENTY OF CHANCES!" Starsky slurred. "WHY DIDN'T I DIE? WHY CAN'T I DIE TOO?"

Dobey stood in silence as the line of paramedics rushed forward without so much as one foot stepping out of time. It took all of them in one way or another, either holding him down or administering the shot. When all was taken into account, it was best that Starsky didn't suffer, however Dobey hated to do it. The only person who could placate him now was the deceased.

"'Uuutch," Starsky moaned, barely scraping the name from his throat. His eyelids fluttered, andhe passed out in a fetal position on the floor, looking no older than a child.

Two slack bodies were hoisted onto two adjacent stretchers, one with a sheet. One stirred, and the other appeared to. Dobey refused to blink, and maybe this mirage could have lasted longer if it didn't last forever. What he wouldn't give for any amount of time before this to gather himself—again. There were things a captain had to tell himself when his men died, but in the end they had never prepared him, not really. Exhausted, he briefly staggered and braced himself for a forlorn Starsky who would continue to do his work with vacant eyes. Starsky was a goddamn martyr by no way of debate. Dobey took a breath, planting his feet into the firm, dry ground, and told himself to be patient. He'd been through this with one partner, and he didn't wish it on anybody else, least of all these two. The world wasn't kind, but most days it didn't go out of its way to be cruel.

The ambulances drove off without him, red lights scarring the sky.

Dobey would see them long after they were gone.

* * *

Starsky always knew he'd be the first to die.

The resulting questions refused to set his mind free. Every day he felt himself withering with the need to know, more every day it went satisfied.

What was so different about it this time? He asked himself. Was it the number of false alarms he went through to bring on all of these tears and twists of torment? Was it that only after so much was he able to give a little and crack? He'd counted Hutch's scars before and drunk himself so bleary he couldn't remember it the next day. Part of Starsky thinks he did it on purpose.

He didn't improve in the days that followed. Every day he sat at his desk promptly at 6 AM and typed up reports in the squad room without grousing, steely eyes never rising from the typewriter to acknowledge the empty chair across from him.

Every day everybody else ignored him, feeling that it was better to leave him to his own devices. Minnie came around a couple of times, always with an expression that indicated she was expecting something from him—a weep, a wail, a set of knuckles hard on wood. No, though. Dobey took his reports and tried talking to him also, but Starsky wouldn't indulge it.

Every evening Starsky ignored the clock and went into overtime, but when it was apparent that he was especially exhausted, he rose from his seat and left the station without delay.

Suddenly Starsky was okay with this type of work and even seemed to prefer it to the street. When the time came, there were other plans for him, but Dobey decided not to press his luck for now. Starsky was more productive than ever, not giving himself time to think about anything else, and it was only when he typed up reports faster than Dobey could shove more at him that the latter worried.

Every subsequent morning, he went to the gym without fail. People said he was recovering, that he was doing a better job of self-maintenance than anyone expected, but those who were close to him knew the truth—that Starsky knew what he had to do to survive, and he focused solely on that. Nobody who didn't know him could say for sure that he wasn't himself. They couldn't look into his eyes and say that they didn't have a purpose before.

This worked for a while. But the sun kept rising and setting, demanding that its tasks be dealt with accordingly. This didn't work for a man who had lost all visible powers of improvisation, who fussed at semantics and shoved his worries behind two glass eyes. This wasn't Starsky, everybody knew. Every morning he walked in carrying the morgue on his back, feeding the air with pregnant silence. Hutch was shrouded in an endless melancholy. Nobody could've let the matter pass if they wanted to. If he was grieving, it didn't appear to show in his work. Most people got distracted; nothing could penetrate Starsky's mind while he was working. Those who knew him, though, saw his habits. This was how Starsky grieved. He continued to hand things in every day, and it looked like he was coping better than if anybody bothered him.

Still, Starsky wouldn't talk. Dobey stayed privy to his progress and tried not to worry from his distance. The reports seemed to be fending off his demons for him, at least. Starsky would tumble into bed, exhausted from preoccupying every inch of his day, and fend off thought altogether. It didn't help, Dobey knew, but it also didn't hurt for the meanwhile. Eventually Starsky would have to deal, but only when he was able to. For now, he was okay. Dobey settled into his chair and started filing papers.

The door to his office swung open, and somebody rushed in before Dobey could register it.

"Here's my badge and gun, Cap. I'm leaving here. G'bye."

"Sit down, Dave."

Starsky, already in the process of slamming the door, stared back, puzzled by the use of his given name. For another reason besides accompanying exhaustion, he sat.

"Before you leave the force, listen to what I've got to say." Dobey said.

Starsky didn't listen for too long. Was there any point in recollection? He stormed out to his car and drove nowhere, anywhere but the station. Streets started to look less and less familiar, not because Starsky didn't know them as much as he felt he no longer knew himself. Parks suited him best when he needed to think, but he drove onward. When he heard Hutch's laughter beside him with his eyes on the road, Starsky knew that the car would have to go, too. Hutch wouldn't leave him no matter what, and neither would what just transpired. None of it mattered. Everything his captain had wanted him to hear was equally valueless. Turning the Torino around when he got to the middle of nowhere, Starsky drove until he found a street. He walked out of the car and braced his thoughts, pieces of the conversation playing in his mind.

"_You know I can't."_

"_Why the hell not, Starsky?"_

_This was no longer about the job. The topic of discussion had floated out the window a long time ago and only remained as a figurehead. Dobey wasn't stupid._

"_Look—working with you was, well, you know what I mean. But I just can't do this without Hutch. It's hard enough living without him."_

"_I know."_

"_I know you know, and just because you kept your job doesn't mean that I'm going to." Starsky sighed. "Cap'n, you've helped me out more times than I deserve. It's better off I leave you in peace at this point."_

"_Starsky, I understand how you feel, and quitting isn't going to help." Dobey said._

_The tears in Starsky's eyes spilled over, and he tried his best to ignore them._

"_You lived for this job, just like Hutch died for it."_

"_Why can't you just leave me alone about this?" Starsky choked. "I can make my own fucking decisions."_

"_Give it a chance!"_

"_I have! You think I like sitting out there, writing reports day after day, knowing exactly what I'm gonna be doing tomorrow? It's not the same!"_

"_It doesn't get better right away, Starsky! And I hate to break it to you, but it takes a hell of a long time if you don't start letting other people help you. I know," Dobey held up a hand. "You're going to say you don't need help, and I'm not going to dignify that with a response out of respect for both of us."_

"_I don't need help," Starsky murmured true to type, lowering his eyes. "I need Hutch."_

"_What do you want me to say? I know you can do this, Starsky."_

"_I know, I know. Hutch ain't coming back, there's nothing that's going to reunite us, and the sooner I start accepting that, the sooner I'll be more jaunty than ever, right?" Starsky raised a pair of eyes with a staggering depth of emptiness. Dobey shook his head and tried to respond, but Starsky pushed on. "I still see him and hear him everywhere—and even when I don't, I know that he's right behind me. Don't tell me I need to see a shrink because I don't. I'm not losing my head. I know what I know."_

"_We all loved Hutch, and we all remember him. Eventually it will get easier to accept the fact that you'll never see him again__. People live on through memories, and when you're ready, you can let those memories surface. I don't know what you believe at this point, but I'll tell you what most of us have been saying, that Hutch has a sure slot in heaven."_

"_Aw, Cap—" Starsky sank down into a chair and rocked forward, allowing his elbows to dig into his knees. "What am I gonna do?"_

The words echoed around Starsky and pushed ahead of him into the bar. For the life of him he couldn't remember the rest of the conversation that had occurred. After that, he'd gotten in the Tomato and driven, losing track of the distance without company. In the time it took his mind to formulate and work out where he was going, he had passed the location and had to drive back. Now he had been plopped on a bar stool so long he forgot he'd ever been anywhere else.

"Starsky, my man! Been too long since I've seen you around." Huggy grinned at Starsky over a glass and dishrag.

"Hey Hug," drawled the curly-headed cop, words falling together. "How have things been at your place?"

"Not too shabby," replied Huggy, setting his things down and leaning over the counter. "How you holding up?"

Starsky looked down into the bottom of his seventh glass and shrugged.

"Maybe you'd better slow down a bit, Curly."

"Nah." Starsky raised his hand and unaffectedly swatted the air. "M'off duty. I'll be fine."

With a sigh, Huggy walked out from behind the counter and sat next to Starsky. For a few seconds, he didn't speak. "I'm sorry," he finally said, as if Starsky didn't already know.

"Yeah, for what? Everybody says 're sorry. Hutch and I knew this was going to happen, and I still can't take it. 'S my fault 'cause I'm too fucking weak."

"Naw." Huggy put an arm around Starsky's slumped form. "It's rough."

"It's bad, Hug. Real bad. 'e's everywhere. Still find myself thinkin' that he's just around the corner somehow, and I can't stop it, and honest to God, I don't want to. 'S much easier like that, even if I know 's not going to last. Can you get me another one?"

Huggy didn't move and ignored his request. "Starsky, it ain't going to go away—and maybe it's not time to move on yet, maybe too soon, but Hutch—"

"—wouldn'ta wanted this, I know. Well, Hutch doesn't know what'is feels like, and 'm glad he doesn't."

"He was torn up bad when Gunther got you."

"I didn't end up dying; it doesn't count." Starsky fiddled with his glass, eyes downward.

"He thought you were."

Starsky looked up. "Huh?"

"Hutch was sure you weren't gonna pull through that time. He kept saying things like, 'Huggy, he's dying,' 'Huggy, he's not gonna make it,' 'There's only so much the body can take,' 'There's nothing I can do about it,' and other than that, didn't say a whole lot. Hutch wasn't much of a talker in the first place, but I never saw him _that_ quiet before. Never saw him that glum, either."

"Why didn't 'e tell me?" Starsky shook his head. His vision blurred as he stared off into a world he could almost see. "Why didn't ya tell me, Hutch?"

"He didn't want you to worry 'bout him. Even more, he was afraid you'd think that he gave up on you. Perish the thought."

"But 'e didn't." Starsky shook his head.

Huggy sighed. "I know that, and you know that, but our man was guilty about it, prolly for a long time after that."

"Well, still. I pulled through, 'n Hutch didn't have to deal with 'e part 'a never seeing me again."

The two of them embraced the silence that followed.

"How 'bout that drink, Hug?"

Huggy contemplated this and slowly shook his head. "Maybe you should back off the booze for a little bit."

"C'mon!" Starsky's garbled voice rose.

"You'll thank me in the morning," Huggy straightened in his chair, attempting to lighten the mood a little.

"Nah, I won't. I'll go to work 'n push out a million reports, deal with everybody's pity, listen to Dobey fight for my badge, like what happens every day."

"You're quitting?" Huggy asked after a pause.

"Trying to," Starsky raised his eyebrows and gave his empty glass another pointed glance. "Cap'n and I don't see eye to eye on it. Save it, matter of fact. I don't need anybody else telling me how to run my life," he added coldly.

Huggy shrugged. "Okay."

"Thanks."

The last time Hutch and Starsky had "retired," things with Huggy had been acrimonious. All things considered, that case had had them all running over the place and left a bitter taste in everybody's mouth. They'd all done and said things they weren't proud of, which was enough leverage to ensure that relationships were just as they'd left them before they'd argued, after it was all tied up. It was just another topic the three of them left where it belonged.

Huggy noticed Starsky eyeing his glass with increasing impatience. It was better to keep him preoccupied. "Chin up, Curly. You'll make it through yet."

"I just—" Starsky closed his eyes, focused: breathe in, breathe out. Swallow. "It was only a few feet, and he got shot right in front of me, and—"

"Hey," Huggy interjected. He knew where this was going.

"—I could've stopped it! I know I could've stopped it! Damn it!" He slammed his fist into the counter.

"Starsky—"

"He was just lyin' there, Hug! He was just lyin' there, looking at me, and I can't help thinking I know I could've stopped it. He was never supposed to die!"

"Starsky, man, listen to me—"

"Just lyin' there," he mumbled again, "and I'm lookin' down and thinking there's something else I can do, there's always something, there's _got_ to be something. And when there wasn't, there had to be something I could've _done_, 'cause that's not there to prove me wrong. Damn it, he was okay before that! Hell, he took a bullet a couple weeks back, and he recovered from _that_! Hutch was never supposed to die!" he hit the counter again. "He'd still be here if it weren't for me, and it's all my fault."

"It's _not_ your fault!"

Starsky waved a hand, dismissive and slow. "Yeah, s'what everybody says. Anyway, here I am, and I got no fuckin' idea what to do."

"Quit blaming yourself, Starsky!"

"Why? It's my fault! I shoulda been there for him, taking the bullet, shoving him out of the way, or maybe even just standing there with my _goddamn eyes open_!"

"Then you'd be six feet under, and Hutch'd be dealing! Is that any better?"

"One hundred percent better. The hitman should've done what Gunther paid him to do."

"Oh, we're back to that now. Just makes everything better, doesn't it? You playing the part of the martyr, and all!"

"At least I was close to dying before! It would've been better that way for both of us."

"You don't know that, Starsky!"

"Yes I do!"

"I told you before, man, you can't blame yourself."

"Huggy, I was _five feet away_!"

"Neither of you saw him coming!"

The him, of course, was Lombardi, scum of the earth and may he rot in hell. Starsky preferred that his name went unspoken.

"Yeah, well, I should've," Starsky mumbled.

"C'mon, Starsky—"

"C'mon, _what_? HE WAS RIGHT THERE!"

Huggy snapped back at the sudden volume change.

"WHAT COULDN'T I HAVE DONE? THEY WERE BOTH RIGHT FUCKING THERE!"

"You were cuffing somebody. Tell me what you could've done."

"Partners're supposed to look out for each other. I failed."

"Don't—"

"Wish 'e aimed the other way." Starsky muttered, looking wild and lost and back across the Pacific, as if he didn't know he was in the Pits with a stained face and shaking body. "Shoulda been me. Oh, god, why wasn't it me?"

Huggy shook his head.

"I couldn't do a damn thing, so he may as well have—" Starsky's shoulders shook.

"Starsky—"

"I couldn't fucking _do_ anything!"

"Of course you couldn't! It's not fair—it's never fair—but it's not your fault!"

"There's always something I could've done! I keep replaying the thing over and over in my head—"

"—then stop!"

"—he's just lying there with the blood pouring outta him, sorta slurring the words, and he's got this real soft expression on his face, and I know it because I've felt that myself, and I know how fucking weak he's feeling right then. He kept grabbing me, asking me about Vietnam, like he didn't wanna go! How am I supposed to say no to that, huh? He didn't wanna die, Hug. I let him down by letting him die."

"Now wait a minute—"

"Then, he put on that strong face for me, just before he went," Starsky plowed right through Huggy's interjection. "Spent so much time taking care of me after Gunther that he forgot about taking care of himself, and the minute he saw I was hurting in that warehouse, he was at peace, or so he wanted me to think."

"He was dying, Starsky! You think he'd have enough energy for a put-on?"

"Hell yeah, I do! We've been doing it for years. If he was gonna die, then I shoulda been right there with him; that's the only way I woulda been blameless! How many other people have died on account of me?"

"Nobody died on your account. How many times do we have to tell you that?!"

"You sure weren't singing that tune when Rigger was up there on the stand, were you? His family had to go into hiding after what we did, and you were right there with them. What's changed since then?"

"You gave him justice, that's what's changed! Justice all the way down the line after Hutch took Gunther down while you were out. And if I know you, you're gonna do the same thing for Hutch."

"Damned right I am, and as soon as I'm finished, I'm quitting."

"That's your choice, but man I'm telling you, it won't make you happy."

"Maybe it will." Starsky turned his head and looked out through the smoke in a near-empty room. "Maybe it will if I force myself to like it."

"It's been four days. Give it some time."

"This should've been all the time I needed."

"Nobody's that strong, Starsky, not even you."

In that moment, Huggy sounded so much like his late partner that Starsky gave way to a round of deep laughter while hearing the concomitant sobs in his mind. Was Hutch still surrounding his frame of reference? And had it really only been four days?

Huggy joined in the laughter for different reasons, not that it lasted long.

"I miss him so much, Hug." Starsky wiped his eyes. "Sometimes I hear him, and that only makes it worse."

"The rest of us have wondered how exactly you're still standing," said Huggy, "after losing everybody you did."

"I'm such a godawful mess."

"A bear would die of fright," Huggy reminded him with levity.

Starsky chuckled through his tears.

"You'll pull through."

"I know, Hug, but that doesn't help me right now."

"What would?"

"Another beer."

"Can't, Starsky."

"And why the hell not?"

"That won't help you, either."

"Well, neither is anything else, then."

"How about some sleep?"

"Not gonna happen." Starsky said with a set jaw, staring straight through the glasses at the back of the bar. "Not after all this, all these pictures that aren't gonna leave me until—" He shook his head, knowing that the thoughts would curl up with him and nest in forever.

"Look, nobody expects you to move on right away, but you've got to _want_ to—"

"Well, I sure as hell don't, and who would want to after all this. He's not gonna leave me, and, worse, the only memories I have of him right now are his last ones! Must feel weird to be living and dying all at the same time. Wonder what it was like for him, knowing he was going and still being around to know." Starsky's head fell into his hands. "I should've—"

"You got to quit beating yourself up over—"

"Huggy, you don't get it. I lost a partner out there!"

"I get it a little more than you think, Starsky! After all we've been through together, how do you think I'd feel if either of you bought it, or both?"

"I'm sorry, Hug; you're right. It's just—"

"Rough, I know. No one's feeling this like you. Not even Old Mrs. Hutchinson."

"Yeah. She's gonna come after me sooner or later for keeping her son employed in such a 'hazardous profession.' Got a point, too."

"Come on. Just don't put words in the lady's mouth."

"Huggy, it's dangerous, and I'm tired."

"So you wanna quit. Hutch wouldn't like it, Dobey wouldn't like it, and you'd like it for maybe a week or two."

Starsky looked up in surprise. Last time he'd quit, Huggy hadn't given a damn. In fact, for all the detective knew, he had been celebrating it.

"The time that you and Hutch quit... well, I was happy to see you two back on the force after that. I know I was pretty mad about Rigger, but everything after that—" Huggy continued, as if reading his friend's mind.

"Maybe if we'd stayed put—if we did become porn stars, after all," Starsky quipped, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

"Porn stars?" Huggy's eyebrows rose.

"After we quit, when we were looking for work—"

"You and Hutch, porn stars? Please." Huggy scoffed. "You two were cops if I've ever seen 'em." He stopped after that, and the lines on Starsky's brow smoothed.

"If you won't give me a real drink, how about just some water, then? I'm parched." He asked in a quiet monotone mirroring his sagging limbs.

Huggy nodded and rose, going behind the bar. He was so tired that he knocked over one glass in getting to another.

Starsky watched with enervated eyes. The image of his reflection burned somewhere behind them for a second after it fell with the glass, and he felt the shards shatter somewhere inside himself. Some implacable pull stretched over him, moments before memories burst and circled above him in a maudlin dance.

Looking at him with concern, Huggy forgot to turn off the faucet until the cool liquid began overflowing onto his palm. It felt nicer than he would admit. "You okay, Curly?" He asked.

"Sure." Starsky blinked, shook his head, and swallowed. "Just thirsty."

Huggy shrugged and returned with the water. "Drink up."

Starsky downed it as Huggy retreated behind the counter and turned the water back on to rinse out a glass.

"You cold?"

"No. Why?"

"You're shaking."

Starsky stared at his hand nearly to the wood beneath, and his eyes refocused. "Oh," he supplied, and rested his fingers on the surface. It was a weird type of existence, sort of like looking at a wound and knowing it was his own despite the lack of pain. After crying, nothing was left except for the dizziness. Anger became apathy. Feelings dulled. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Huggy's and froze. The glasses and dishrag were abandoned, and the faucet was running freely.

Starsky leapt clumsily off the stool. "Gotta go," he muttered.

"Where?" Huggy asked dubiously.

"Now c'mon, Hug—"

"My place tonight, Curly." Huggy raised his arms. "No arguments. Do you really want to go back to your apartment tonight?"

Starsky painted his face with a scowl. It didn't take an ounce of effort for him to agree, but he figured he'd put on a obstinate show anyway, pretending that he didn't.

* * *

Starsky always knew everybody else would go on living without him.

Hutch, obviously, was included there. Starsky had never planned for a life without Hutch, and now he found himself wholly unprepared.

He looked down, though his mind continued past the ground.

R.I.P. Kenneth Hutchinson.

There it stood, in bold print and capital letters. It's take two or three glances to know it was handwritten.

In a little clearing of trees lay a smattering of stones concealing the lack of a grave. Marks of loving graffiti surrounded a block of wood with a set of words carved into it, courtesy of Margaret Marisipio, née Hutchinson, family novelist and historian.

"_He sleeps._" the marker said. "_Life was kind to him, and although he died arbitrarily in the line of duty, we will all be with him when the day departs._"

Hutch wanted to rot in the ground about as much as any other poor sucker who had his head screwed on right, so he goddamn better have liked the cairn.

Below and on each side of what Hutch's sister wrote Starsky had scrawled another word—"_Forever._" He still had a better idea for an epitaph, but Marge had taken up too much goddamn room. "_To save your world you asked this man to die: Would this man, could he see you now, ask why?_" His aunt and uncle had taken him to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier after he got back from 'Nam, and those words always stuck with him. He didn't know why. They sounded good. They even looked good until he blinked and got smacked in the face with a branch. The image had vanished by the time his eyes refocused.

It was like this with so many of his army buddies, and this time wasn't really so different. All the way down to "line of duty," the camaraderie, and, in death, the needlessness, the ties were apparent. It wasn't even that Starsky was bitter, just that he wanted to know why the bullet had hit where it did, and why it hit when it did. Who and how and all that other shit was already sorted. They'd even torn a motive out of him, not that that made any difference when the bullet had sufficient motive of its own.

Had Tony Lombardi shot to kill?

He and his aim begged no.

It was Lombardi who shot him, but it wasn't Lombardi who killed him. All sorts of people had tried to kill Hutch before then, but he'd always managed to scrape through.

Starsky peered down at the bag of gray dust in his hand, failing to see its bottom. That was the only thing he had left to do, then he was supposed to move on forever: expected to move on forever. "Fuck this," he muttered to himself. He'd never believe that that pile of matter was all that was left of his friend who had come to comprise more of him than he himself did over the years. It had been like this with the troublesome cairn, too, and a long line of Christmas presents. He had looked for Hutch in every Christmas present and then every stupid, woeful little stone. It was a hell of a lot easier to do when he was alive. For one thing, cairns weren't for sale. Starsky had to first find a way to honor Hutch without offending him and then go and build the damn thing, which took over two weeks to complete until Hutch winked at him from its center. It still looked sad and shitty, Starsky thought. After all, it wasn't like buying a Christmas present. Well, it was, and it wasn't. He never would have come up with the idea if he hadn't been moderately successful at Christmas presents for years.

His mind drifted to similar matters, such as the fact that Hutch had never shown him the tree that got planted in his honor, not after he'd seen the despondence in his partner's features. Something inexplicable plucked at Starsky's heart, but he was far too weary to feel afflicted.

It had been two weeks, but Starsky still didn't feel any less like a child. Experiences like this, like Vietnam, didn't mature people—they caused them to curl into themselves and snivel. Starsky didn't like his work, he didn't like this situation, and he didn't like the verdict. If the two of them had stayed retired, they'd be far happier than if their jobs ripped them apart.

A breeze chilled Starsky's instincts, and the ground became soft underneath his feet. For the second time in his life, he had no idea about where to go from here. Coming back to the States ten years ago hadn't been a journey just in the literal sense. Now he was in a similar state, sure that he'd survive but not sure of how he'd do it. Life without Hutch hadn't been quite the apocalypse he had imagined, but then again, he hadn't made any big decisions yet. Probably he wasn't fully awake from the loss.

"You ain't making this easy, Hutch," he muttered, recalling his attempts to calm the frantic Hutch while he was going—even trudged back into 'Nam for him. It had been too easy to lose his patience, as always. He gripped the branch that had hit him earlier: bend, wiggle, and snap.

Nothing could stay calm forever.

Still every inch was trying its damndest, and it must have been under the hand of Hutch, who had ended up dying at peace. He had seen so much—they had both seen so much—the usual things their job entailed, rape, murder, child abuse, indestructible organized crime. There were those things, and then there were all the others, the times they had faced death on their own terms, leaving staggering and tasting sweat, flying high on adrenaline. Starsky and Hutch been poisoned several times between them and beaten and shot more times than either cared to remember. They both loved and lost and survived to see other days. Hutch had even confessed to having a journal—and to having burned it. Nobody ever knew about it except for Starsky, who now wished his partner had never done such a thing. He had even voluntarily started paying attention to all of the little things Hutch had relished, such as how nice of a day it was today, throwing clouds across the sky like white wisps of cotton candy to a child's eye. Greenwas everywhere. It was neither warm nor cold without a windbreaker; leaves rustled, trails of rocks showed their upturned lips, and birds sang in a thousand different silence-shattering sounds—

—and Starsky was still holding onto the ashes.

He was still here.

He'd nearly been able to forget, to lose himself in the wild. Hutch was egging him on in that pursuit.

Honestly, it was like those parties that got dull after most of the people left—worse for those who stuck around.

Hutch wasn't gone, not really. Starsky hadn't felt that for a moment in these past weeks. It was always the fact that Hutch was gone, but not _gone_—he could still see his partner smile and shake his head just out of his sightline, still recognize him in every blond-headed, blue-eyed man who walked by. Then, every time he'd raise his hand to wave, or open his mouth to speak, he'd blink, and Hutch would be gone. It was simply too easy to imagine that Hutch had been there and hadn't seen. Everywhere Starsky went, Hutch was still five steps behind him, with him always, and Starsky never looked back to check—this was the honors system. Yes, Hutch was still there, even if he wasn't _there_, and it was 'me and thee' once more.

Sprinkling the ashes would change all of that.

Starsky had a sudden urge to send the ashes back to Duluth, let the Hutchinsons put their son in an urn on the mantle. Hutch wouldn't like that, but they sure as hell would. Then Starsky wouldn't have to deal with this shit, and he'd live happily ever after. Yeah, it sounded like a fantastic plan.

The more fantastic it sounded, the more Starsky knew he wouldn't go through with it. He knew from all of the time he'd spend convincing himself to do it and then falling flat when the time came. He'd tried all night to be mad at Hutch after Kira, but one look at those pained baby blues told him what he'd known of himself all along.

Starsky had to do it quickly so he didn't take an eternity thinking about it. He had his finger plied in the bag, ready to open it. "Here goes, buddy," he murmured. "I miss you already."

"Hey!" a feminine voice called from behind him, slightly short of breath as she tumbled the hill.

It was Margaret Marsipio, the snoot herself, showing up to shove around her daily dose of condescension. Her chestnut hair was pulled into a bun, revealing eyes of a shade Starsky had only ever known once in his lifetime.

He turned further away. "Hello."

"They told me you had the ashes."

"Yep." You're not getting them, either, Starsky thought to himself.

"Am I too late?"

Starsky wanted to ask "Late for what?" simply to be antagonistic, but it would take too much energy and too many words. "No," he said instead, settling for a glower.

Margaret's own frown deepened. Two could play that game. Besides—"You drew all over my epitaph! And what is _that_?" She wrinkled her nose at the pile of stones.

"_That_ is a cairn," Starsky replied with a pointed glare. She was supposed to be on the plane back to Duluth. "Hutch doesn't like anything that'll die on him."

Her disdain loosening its wrinkles to a smooth, contemplative expression, Margaret nodded slowly. She knew this was true, better than almost anyone—really, anyone in the world—except for David insert-preferred-expletive Starsky. Of all people in the world to be standing with, this one best knew her brother, and she both loved and hated the fact. "Rocks are abiotic. They were never living," she pointed out gently, more to herself than the tortured young man next to her.

"Yeah, but it's _there_," Starsky retorted. "It's there for us to see, and it's not gonna go away. Immortal in its own right."

A single tear trickled down Margaret's left cheek, the side Starsky was on, and he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm sorry—"

Margaret shook her head. "No, it's not that. What you said, it's—it's true."

"I guess," Starsky shrugged. "Not really sure of anything anymore."

Kneeling down, Margaret asked, "What'd you write on my epitaph?"

"I, um, nothing—it's nothing," Starsky replied, feeling suddenly shy.

Margaret traced the doodles with her hand, and she smiled as she read the word. "It adds to it," she said as she stood.

"Yeah, well, it means a lot—to Hutch and me," Starsky said.

"May I look at your—what was it—a cairn?"

Starsky stiffened. Then again, he had drawn all over her epitaph. "Sure," he said.

With a slow, deliberating pace, Margaret undulated toward the pile of stones that was roughly her height. Just before reaching it she paused and looked back at the taller man, who seemed unaffected by her actions. Her hand caressed the contours and glided over some of the smoother rocks as if by touching them she could learn to know each of them and build a human from the tiny pieces, living, breathing, smiling, tall, sheltering, and caring.

She wanted Kenneth back.

Involuntarily, Margaret flexed her fingers away from the stones and shuddered. It didn't take a beating heart or a functioning brain or a set of expanding lungs to make a life. All she needed were memories, emotions, and qualities, the same it had been in every novel she'd written. Starsky had been right. As soon as the revelation found her, she recalled that this was not her work to mold and lowered her hand. The intangible veil fell with a thud.

"I'm sorry if I acted like a snoot," Margaret stepped back. "It's been hard for us, and sometimes I get overprotective of my work, especially where it comes to Ken—"

"You didn't sign it," Starsky said brusquely, nodding toward the block.

Her own eyes flickered toward the inscription, so mocking, so false, and it took her gaze for a few seconds. Margaret hadn't seen her brother in over five years. She had no right. Blinking away a headache, she lost track. "Huh?" She asked with closed eyelids.

"You didn't sign it," Starsky repeated, looking at her. "Why?"

"It didn't add anything," she said simply. "It's Ken's, not mine—Ken's and everybody else's. I tried to, but it made me feel ridiculously conceited." She paused. "It didn't even occur to you to sign the cairn, did it?"

"No," Starsky shook his head truthfully. Even now that it was articulated, the idea sounded stupid.

"Then you are a beautiful human being." She stated quietly, averting her eyes. "It's easy to see why Hutch admired you."

Anger curled in Starsky's gut, but he didn't feel much like lashing out again. If anybody else told him what a good friend he had been, when this should have been all about Hutch, his sanity would explode. "It was always 'us,'" said Starsky, by way of explanation. "Never just me, or never just him."

Margaret surveyed Starsky with a high chin and a somber air. It was a value of character that she had never possessed and never would.

"There's so little of me left without him." Starsky muttered, looking away.

Margaret heard it, even though it was easier to pretend she hadn't. The way Ken took a little bit of everybody with him when he died should have made him larger than life. No, though—he left just as human as he came, almost the same as she remembered him when he left Duluth, only braver and stronger. One look at Starsky told her that it was these same qualities that lived in him, and she knew that it was from their bond that he had extracted them. Everybody commented on how different they were, but they didn't seem to understand how much of them was the same. Everybody proclaimed that it was their differences that added up and allowed them to work so productively together, and maybe they were right—those differences distinguished them as two, not one, but the similarities gave them the ability to empathize with each other and understand the work that was shoveled under their feet every day. All it took was a quick look at one or the other to see them both. She saw these things in a day and sensed the reality through years of working with characters who were fictitious. Truth was far stranger than fiction, and qualities remained true to type—a psychology minor had served her well.

"Margaret—"

"—Maggie," Margaret corrected him with a wan smile. "I detest the name Margaret."

Starsky smiled wanly. "Maggie, thank you. Will you tell Hutch's—your parents I said hello, and that I'm sorry? That is, if they're not as angry with me as I think."

"They are not angry at you," Margaret said. "If they were cold over the telephone, it's because they never got to say goodbye. They resent the fact that he wasn't buried, so thank you for following his wishes." She paused as her eyes lost focus, mind chewing on the silence. "They wouldn't have."

"What happened to your flight?" Starsky asked, growing weary of talking about Hutch's parents.

"I didn't feel like I said a proper goodbye." Margaret walked forward again with her arm outstretched. She closed her eyes and inhaled as she felt the rocks' smooth surfaces and forced herself to become a likeness. There would be no crying—not now, not here. Touching them for a second time brought her comfort along with the juxtaposing woe. "The phone in my room is probably ringing off the hook. Husband doesn't like to take charge of the kids for too long." She stepped away. "I'd better go."

"Wait," Starsky interjected. Looking just as surprised as Margaret did, he continued, lifting the bag of ashes. "I could use a hand."

Something on Margaret's countenance lifted, although not quite enough to result in a smile. "Of course," she replied, reaching in and grabbing a fistful of ashes. Another tremor rippled through her. She didn't feel so much that she was clutching what was left of her brother as much as she was on the tip of the iceberg here with sending him back into the wild. She took a deep breath. It's what Ken would have wanted, she told herself.

Lifting a fistful of his own, Starsky looked at Margaret for confirmation. "Ready?"

She drew a breath. "Yes."

They threw together, ashes hitting flowers and leaves and darting out of sight beneath the soil. They paused only for a second. The weight sprang off and hung somewhere high above them as they grabbed bigger fistfuls, throwing them faster and further. Starsky couldn't contain a tiny grin. Margaret thought for a second that she might even have laughed, but her cheeks were so damp that she would never know for sure if she had. Time stopped and transcended the pair to a different place, one where no one had ever lived or died or worried at all, where existed raucous mirth without war or complete peace, where nothing really happened in its euphoria, a land of folly and skin-deep beauty.

However, when the bag was about two-thirds through, Starsky withdrew the bag and turned to Margaret, smile gone.

Margaret's worry lines came back.

"How about taking the rest back with you to Duluth?" Starsky's laden hand slowly advanced until it was as still as the rest of him, extended fully forward. The entirety of him luminesced with earnest.

Neither one of them spoke or moved as blue met blue for the first time and yet for the millionth, each trying to gauge the other's sincerity.

Margaret looked down, damming the tears. After a moment, she nodded, biting her lip. Then, surprising both of them, she threw her arms wildly around Starsky's neck. "Thanks," she blurted, as high-pitched and diffident as if she were six years old again. If she were crying and didn't know it before, she was fully aware of it by this point.

"S'where he grew up. Don't mention it." Starsky said, patting her twice on the back.

Drawing back as quickly as she had advanced, Margaret blinked and took the offered bag. "Thank you," she repeated, wiping her face hurriedly. "Do you have a watch?"

"No." Hutch had managed to ruin both of his watches for him, Starsky remembered with a smile. "Do you need a ride to the airport?" He asked without really meaning to, as he sometimes tended to do. He had no intention of leaving this early.

"No," Margaret said. "I can manage on my own." She stepped back with upturned lips, afraid of intruding further upon their world. It had already started to gnaw at her grief, great without further spun on her heels and took the hill like Hermes.

"It was good meeting you, Maggie." Starsky called after her.

"Likewise," she replied, feeling the wind take her voice.

Starsky had read her lips, however, and sent her a final grin. He turned back to the stones and slab of wood empty-headed and empty-handed, forcing his eyes to stay there. It had just been another Hutch who would disappear on him before he could prove that it had been a case of mistaken identity.

Eventually, he'd get sick of Hutch not showing up. He'd accept that empty chair across from his desk and that full fridge of shakes that indicated that Hutch wasn't going to be around. He'd deal with that when it came, as it came. He could forget that he remembered Hutch lying there without a pulse—he could've been unconscious, after all, or clinically dead, as he himself had been after Gunther got him. He could pretend that Hutch was here, if only as his mind pleased to project. Eventually he'd forget to remember, as everybody did. Eventually the illusions would wear off, and that beautiful anomalous mist surrounding what had happened would fade, leaving only the truth.

That was eventually.

Starsky took out his badge and flipped it open, watching it catch the sun and burst into thousands of shimmering facets of gold.

"_Think about it, Starsky," Dobey had said. "You won't need another partner—"_

"Detective _Lieutenant_ David Starsky," Starsky repeated with closed eyes. He couldn't help the corners of his lips tugging upwards, showing a full set of teeth. "How ya like it on me, Hutch?"

"—_for years, it was both of you or neither—"_

Starsky shook his head. He had gone in there to turn in his badge. Hell, he still could do it.

"—_I took it up with the Chief, and he said yes this time—"_

"_Aw, Ryan likes me after all? Miracles never cease!"_

"_Shut up and listen to me, Starsky!"_

"_What do you want me to do, Cap'n? Take advantage of Hutch like that?" Starsky replied with a glare. "He never made it to there, and neither should I."_

"_You came in here to put your badge on my desk, didn't you?"_

"_Hell yeah, I did," Starsky said. "Still gonna do it, too."_

"_Hutchinson wouldn't have wanted that—"_

_Starsky stood and slammed his fist into the desk, stars popping in his head from the name of his deceased partner. "How dare you? I knew Hutch better than anyone!"_

"_I knew Hutch too, Starsky!" Dobey barked. "Now sit. Listen to what I'm saying."_

_A door slammed._

"_Starsky!"_

"A consolation prize," Starsky muttered, "but he said he won't give me another partner. You gotta help me out, Hutch."

He did, and he didn't. Hutch hadn't said anything, but Starsky knew from his own smile that his partner was laughing at him. Either way, he ended up back on square one.

"_Before you leave the force, listen to what I've got to say." Dobey said. "I've spoken with the Chief, and we agree that your and Hutch's work was beyond satisfactory. He's very sorry to have lost him."_

"_Save it, Captain," Starsky scowled. "What are you getting at?"_

"_In Hutch's memory as well as the interest of your position, we're offering you something else. After reviewing your lieutenant exam, Chief Ryan wants to offer you a promotion. You'd be working 21__st__ Precinct. The semantics still have to be worked out, but I wanted to let you know in the meanwhile."_

"_In short?"_

"_In short, congratulations."_

_Starsky blinked. "You're bribing me with a promotion?"_

_Dobey expected this. This was Starsky, he told himself._

"_You mean Hutch is somewhere pushing daisies, and I get a reward?" Starsky's voice rose._

"_Hutch's death isn't your fault."_

"_Yeah it is, Cap'n. Partners don't let each other die." Starsky's voice rose. "Oh, I love this. Here I am just trying to survive, and the department sends a shiny new badge as a get well present. Let them eat cake, huh? __I don't need a pity party__!" He turned to leave._

"_It's not a pity party, Starsky!" Dobey yelled after him. "You two were the best we had, and if you stay where you're at, we'll have to find you a new partner."_

_Starsky stopped and inclined his head._

"_That's right. We'll have to give you another partner. Is that what you want?"_

"_Don't you understand why I can't?" Starsky's momentum wavered and crashed as he stood still facing the door. "I can't," he pleaded._

_Dobey closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "Hutch would have wanted this for you, Dave. He wouldn't have been angry."_

"_Even at his own expense? And who cares? I know he's not angry—I am!"_

_Dobey sighed. Starsky still wouldn't refer to Hutch in the past tense. "Dave—"_

"_What?" Starsky's voice cracked. "Look, I can't take the goddamn promotion, and I'm leaving. I'm sorry. I'm fucking __sorry__! What else can I say?"_

"_You can say you'll think about it!"_

"_Well, I'm not going to think about it."_

"_Starsky—"_

"_What happened to the college requirement, anyway? Did it just disappear?"_

"_It was waived. It's been waived ever since you and Hutch busted that whole operation when you two were retired."_

"_So this has been around a while then." Starsky threw a hand in the air and began to pace. "Terrific."_

"_Yes, it's been in development, Starsky. But Ryan always seemed to skip one of you for promotion every time, and I stressed that it was both of you or neither."_

_Starsky laughed wryly. "Who was skipped? Naw, never mind. Dumb question. Me."_

"_It was you or Hutch at different times. Some years he skipped over both of you."_

"_Okay. And now that Hutch is dead, everything suddenly changes?"_

"_At least give it a chance!"_

"_I'm a Sergeant! I'll never be anything but a Sergeant! Barely holding onto my job the way things are right now! You already suspended me once."_

"_That was to get you undercover! Besides, you and Hutchinson had the best conviction rate on record. So shut up and don't try to tell me you two haven't made an impression."_

"_I don't want a new boss or a new position! I wanna quit. You honestly think those officers over in the 21__st__ Precinct have got something to learn from me?"_

_Dobey ignored the backdoor compliment. "Damned if you're gonna quit, and if you stay a Sergeant, you're going to need a new partner, so you're being promoted! Congratulations!"_

"_Oh yeah? What if I don't take it?" Starsky challenged. "What if I do quit?"_

_Dobey had tried. There was no way of making such a position right, only making the best of it. If Starsky left, maybe it was for the best—he'd finally have a shot at halcyon. He wasn't as young as he used to be, and beneath the skin __of a kid__ rebel beat the heart of a man who wanted to love again, clean out of harm's way. The last time he had considered that was with Terry, even before she was mortally wounded. From that trace of exhaustion in his posture and the pent-up, endless frustration, he knew that Starsky was in the same boat again, and he was reconsidering._

_Starsky's own eyes softened, giving way to a kinder inner-child. "I quit once, when Hutch was alive," he spoke softly. "Remember that, Cap'n?"_

"_Yeah. Just when I had finished convincing myself that it was for good, you two got reinstated."_

"_Seems I couldn't stay away. That was when Hutch was around, though. I think I'll stay away fine."_

"_You won't, and you know it."_

"_I just can't stay in a job that killed my partner, Cap. Can't you understand that?"_

"_I can understand it, but I can't accept it! Starsky, he knew what the risks were when he joined. So did you!"_

"_Aw, __geez__," Starsky's voice wavered, and he swung away from Dobey's sharp view, pinching the bridge of his nose._

"_You don't want to hear this, well you're gonna hear it. You met Ken at the Academy, ergo after you decided to join the force. Just a second ago, you said 'I can't stay in a job that killed my partner.' One came after the other, and you wanna quit the one you chose first! That doesn't make sense to me!"_

"_Sure I met him on the job, but that doesn't mean that I gotta like making friends on the job when I keep outliving them!" Starsky ignored the use of his partner's given name._

"_I'm taking you off the roster, Starsky. All the time you need. That's what you get right now."_

"_I'm quitting!"_

"_Damn it, Starsky, do you think you're the only one on the force who's lost a buddy?"_

"_Of course not, Cap, but what if I can't take it anymore?"_

_Dobey stopped short. He had expected his last question to curb Starsky's momentum, but it was Starsky's question that had ended up rhetorical._

_Starsky stood still, panting, waiting for Dobey to respond._

"_I'm not accepting your resignation yet," Dobey yelled. "You know I can't!" Starsky could have taken the silence as a pardon and slammed the door in his face. He didn't. "I'm just trying to help you, Dave—"_

"_I know!" Starsky threw his open hands in front of him. Everybody had been trying to help him, and damn, was he sick of it. He sighed and braced himself for Dobey's barbed retort and looked up when he didn't get it._

_Dobey said nothing and scrutinized him with a careworn, blank, yet somehow expectant expression._

_Starsky took a couple of deep breaths. "I know," he repeated in a leveler tone. "I'm sorry. I can't."_

"_Ryan doesn't want to watch half of the best conviction rate on record walk out the door. I don't want to see you leave because you love police work." Dobey said, looking carefully at Starsky's face._

"_I'm leaving my badge and gun," Starsky began hoarsely, "then I'm leaving this station, and I'm not coming back to get them this time." He emptied his holster first, giving Dobey the gun. He produced the badge quickly and easily, holding it in his outstretched hand before either he or the Captain registered it._

_Dobey's fingers curled around Starsky's. "Keep the badge, Starsky. For now."_

_Starsky looked up at his Captain with startled eyes. __He looked down at his hand without recognition.__ Finally, his own fingers curling more tightly around the metal, he turned and fled the office._

"_If you change your mind, come back," Dobey called after him, but his requests were hit on deaf ears, as long as angry doors didn't have ears. He stared into the palm of his empty hand with hope._

Starsky's reminiscent grin eroded. There were other forms of work. If he wrote those reports exactly how Dobey _didn't_ want them and turned them in to an editor, he might even be able to scrape it out in a journalism career—better pay, less dangerous, and incontestably easier. Why was he so bent on police work?

It had never been the same as it had with army work. Police work had been, as Lieutenant Fargo once said, righting a wrong—only Hutch was right. Starsky was no vigilante. Nor had he ever wanted to be. Perhaps it was because vigilantism reminded too much of his time in Vietnam—ethics without calculation, bent far past the confines of virtue. There'd been no consequences either, no system of checks and balances. It was the jungle, and it was hell out there.

Tying Vietnam to the infant state of his current life was a task Starsky still felt utterly incapable of doing. From his use of illegal drugs prescribed during service to his scorn of the laws overall, it still made no sense. He remembered the exact date he showed up at the Academy, just like he remembered the exact date and time he hobbled off the plane, both ways, the first time airsick and the second time wounded. What happened in between was as much set in stone: the abstraction was in how one led to the other. He didn't ever remember being a bad kid. Was morality something that changed with the location or situation, or was it always in someone's capacity to help somebody up at his own expense or kick him when he's down? Hell if anybody knew, but Starsky didn't feel like that half of the time. He didn't think he was a good person, even if he knew he wasn't a bad one.

Did it really matter?

Deep down, he knew he wasn't a different person, no matter how much he wanted to be.

Starsky ran a hand through his hair.

_Ten seconds afterward, he was there to retrieve his coat. "Bye," he grabbed it, fending Dobey off with a scowl._

He knew he'd joined the force because of reasons, and those reasons hadn't changed.

_He couldn't leave the office._

_Both stood, caught briefly in a facet of frozen time, maybe even another time, tearing into each other with identical expressions of remorse. It was a foreign moment for each man, put up against the normal backdrop of one addressing the other—and while the discourse wasn't always civil, they always knew what to say then and in the reparations afterward. __For now, the pair were diffident, mentally regressed in both age and rank, and it was not each other that made them squirm so much as themselves. It was a rift that would go forever unbroken unless it was disintegrated by the impossible._

"_When do I start?" Starsky asked._

He could have kicked himself.

He could've told himself that it was wrong because it was profiting from Hutch's death. He could've told himself that it was wrong because he was selling out all of the years of laughs and experience they'd shared together as Detective Sergeants.

Somehow, neither one of those seemed right—not with a smile on his face, not with the wind blowing just that way, not with a pile of rocks that looked like shit, and not with a partner whose presence still radiated from within him and everything outside him that he saw, heard, and felt.

Starsky always knew he'd die before anyone else did, but he's been wrong before.

The wind blew the world away from him, or him away from the world—he didn't know one from the other or care. The ashes were furthest from his mind, for if he looked just once at the lavender under where they had nested, just ten minutes back, he might've seen a late friend stirring.

He'd be gone at the second glance.

~  
_An honest man here lies at rest,_  
_The friend of man, the friend of truth,_  
_The friend of age, the guide of youth;_  
_Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,_  
_Few heads with knowledge so inform'd;_  
_If there's another world, he lives in bliss;_  
_If there is none, he made the best of this._  
Robert Burns

_Epitaph on a Friend_


End file.
